


Lingering Pain

by tiababylo



Series: Loop of Immortality [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Astral!Noctis, Bahamut is still a piece of shit, Depiction of Death, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mention of Death, Mentioned Cor Leonis, Mentioned Gladiolus Amicitia, Mentioned Ignis Scientia, Mentioned Prompto Argentum, Mentioned Umbra (Final Fantasy XV), Murder-Suicide, Not so fun, a lot of feels around here, immortality is still shit, older!noctis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiababylo/pseuds/tiababylo
Summary: Sometimes, he even doubts his living state. Sometimes, it was easier to think he was already half-dead and nothing was awaiting for him in life. Sometimes, feelings were just too hard to keep, and sometimes, the calling of the blade was too strong to resist.
Relationships: Bahamut (Final Fantasy XV) & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Regis Lucis Caelum, Noctis Lucis Caelum/Nyx Ulric
Series: Loop of Immortality [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799161
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Lingering Pain

**Author's Note:**

> and here is the second part. Didn't know i'll write it this quick, to be honest but... well, it is. It came all in a big big rush of inspiration. I didn't mean it to be so angsty and all, but... well, again, it is ! 
> 
> Trigger warning for Suicide, please be safe if you read this and i'm sorry if there is trigger of some sort in it ;; 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy it !

On good days, Noctis would always linger a little too long on the balcony since that encounter between the last night shades and the first dawn rays. On good days, he’ll even allow a few people in his temple, for prayers or for whatever-these-people-do. It’s not like he didn’t care, he didn’t want to disturb them and be a burden to whatever there were searching in the old black throne room that was his. A single room with tall black marble walls, a few golden streaks here and there to give a little touch of color to dark room. If people could look closely, they could see softer touch of grey and even blue between the stark black and the shiny gold. The throne, on itself, was something quite sophisticated, mirroring the king itself and his role if not for the color that didn’t quite reflect the light he was supposed to bears. But it was still a piece of art in itself, as well as the room even if it didn’t show up like that at first sight. Designed in black marble with soft grey touches here and there and a little line of gold there and there as well ; the most marvelous thing about this throne was the golden composition that elevated on the back of the throne and going up the wall to touch the roof. A golden composition with delicate arabesque going there and there, floral touches crystallized in gold metal, and, amidst this all too complex composition, the reproduction of all the weapons he once bears. First, the ones of his forefathers, called the Royal Arms of the Lucii. Six at each side of the throne, imprisoned in gold, when the last one was at the top of the throne. 

The first, sword of the wise, was at his left, lingering memory of the one who built the protecting wall of Insomnia. The handle of the weapon decorated by soft touches of black metal and other shiny crystals to give a little bit of color to a room that didn’t held that much. The Axe of the Conqueror, pointed downward, was at his right and even if Noctis tried not to think about it, every time his eyes linger on it, he could still feel the dangerousness of the weapon and the pain it inflicted on him. The Bow of the Clever was around the blade of the Mystic, at his left, the two weapons forming some kind of complex mix where it was difficult to know where one begins and one ends, intertwined like it was. The Swords of the Wanderer were crossed on each side of the sword of the Tall, at the right, giving the impression this was some kind of wall of pickaxe, daring anyone to come closer and bleed. The Star of the Rogue, that shuriken Noctis liked so much when he was younger was at his left, beside the others, at the limit of the throne itself, guarding both the king and his throne as well as the last weapon. Something that was mirrored by the Shield of the Just, on the right. It was reminding the King of the two people who followed him through his journey to death, and would have gave their life for him to live. Too bad it didn’t happen that way, but like Noctis always said: He was glad he did die for them instead of the other way around. He couldn’t have supported the death of his two friends and his own. Too much guilt involved. The Mace of the Fierce was above the throne, on the wall, crossed with the Scepter of the Pious, guardians of the throne, of the king, of the light, of the Line. The Trident of the Oracle, a reminder to Noctis of someone who died for him, was at his right, glued to the throne itself as well as the Katana of the Warrior, at his left. The last one… The hurtful one: The Sword of the Father was at the top of the throne and every time Noctis’ eyes landed on it; it sends a ping of pain in his heart he couldn’t stop from spreading until he was regaining full control over his breathing. Something that could take a few minutes to a few long hours. 

This was on bad days. 

On good days, the sword of his father will still give him a little pain, a little. A pain taking a few minutes of recovery and a few tears falling on the marble floor, sobs muffled by the agonizing silence of the throne room and the real realization of the loneliness. Most of the time, he avoided looking at the sword, his eyes averting the gold and black surface of the sword before regaining his place on the black throne and returning into his usual slumber. But on bad days… On bad days, everything was so difficult and oh so different. The triggers were always different. And yeah, someone could think that after all these years of immortality, some things would never be different. But this, these bad days and its triggers, they always were. Sometimes, it was a noise, sometimes it was the light itself and sometimes, the trigger was in his dreams – well, mostly nightmares at this point. On bad days, he would try to standup and begin roaming in the room, senseless, aimless until the scars he bears begins to burn. His hands would fail to grip a surface on which he could take power of, and he’ll finish on his knees, head bowed, tears streaming aimlessly on his cheeks, through his beard and falling on his neck where the scars lingers. He would close his eyes, to avoid his reflection in the marble on his knees. And sometimes, when his eyes would open, they will find themselves fixed on the sword above the throne, and a cry of agony would escape from his mouth at the same time a raging sound of thunder was falling outside. Sometimes, Noctis thought Ramuh was trying to protect his misery, his agony and his sadness and his cries by making lightning and thunder falls on Insomnia, giving him the little privacy Noctis craved for. His gifts were always so discreet, concealed and hidden to the others, gifts hidden in the lingering though it could be mere coincidence. Something that warmed Noctis heart more than he could tell. Bahamut was cruel, but not all Astrals were. 

Carbuncle was the one he liked the most. Probably because the little creature was following him since he was a child, protecting his dreams and his slumber the best he could. Shiva was warm, even if she was called the Glacean and she could control Ice, she was warmer than Ifrit could ever pretend to be. She came, once in a while, especially during summers Noctis didn’t quite liked because the hot temperatures always awake the aches of some scars. Ifrit, on the other hand, never came. Even after is release of the scourge, he stayed where he was and stayed silent. Ramuh.. Well, he was the one who protected him and his privacy during his bad days. A single and simple gift Noctis couldn’t know how to thanks. It was not much for some, but it was a lot to him who felt like the rest of his life and world was crumbling apart until he was facing the weapons of his forefathers and theirs spirits again. Titan… He always liked him. The quietest of all, the one who protected him against the Hydraean, who protected him when he walked in the Citadel. He didn’t saw or spoked to him since he ascended, and that was okay. It was the same for Leviathan, even if he believed in some of her manifestations when rain was pouring and it was not Ramuh’s will. And.. There was Bahamut. He appeared, sometimes, during his slumber and exceptional days, but… Other than that, he didn’t saw him, and Noctis was glad. Really. He didn’t like this Astral; he didn’t like him because of what he made him be. He tried, most often than not, to not think about him. 

But hell. Bad ways would always made him appears, at some point. Either by his voice echoing in the Throne Room with words Noctis didn’t care to hear, or by seeing his reflection somewhere in the room. Bad days will always hit close to home, too close for comfort. It’s during these bad days that the thought of the wolfish grin of the Galahdian hero hurts him most because he couldn’t stand up and meet him at the crack of dawn, on that guard tower roof. Because the only thing he could do was crawl in the floor of his throne room and cry until his lungs hurts, pray to whoever could hear him to finish what was left of him when his whole body was painful. It was a painful sight, to see him like this, Carbuncle said to him once, when he came on one of these days, trying to bring some kind of comfort to the little king of light. The magical creature came and nuzzle against him, trying to give him a little hug of his own, his purr trying to soothe the pain away, in vain. They both knew this was useless, but the creature never stopped doing it. He was even purring louder when the sobs grew louder as well. The pain never left, and it never will. Noctis came to this conclusion, at some point, that he had to bear it till the end of times. And always, in this somber days, the question would pop, again and again, like a litany, like an endless prayer: _What have I done to deserve this?_ And nothing but the silence answered him, and sometimes, it was the comforting purr of Carbuncle that answered him, only giving him more grief to hold onto. 

These days hurts the hardest. Every day hurts somehow, on different scales and levels, but the bad days were the worst, when the triggers came by surprise and nothing could soothe the pain away and nothing could help him stand again. It was like he was trap in some sort of maze when the exit was nowhere to find. In front of every walls he stopped by, there was a rift, a crack he couldn’t break. A crack from where light escaped, little rays of memories he wished he forgot. Despair crawling under his skin as he stumbles upon these and tried, in vain, the catch them to feel them against his skin, like if catching them was a silence oath promising him that he could go back in the past like he did with Umbra a long time ago. But no. The only thing he faced was the despair of staying stuck in this loop where nothing waits for him, not even death at the end. He felt trapped, like an animal in a cage made of gold and black marble, trying to find an exit when he was walking senseless, paced like an insane man. Maybe he was going insane. Maybe he was. Because sometimes, when the haze lift itself a bit, he could see the shape and the forms of his former friends watching him, smiling at him, soothing the pain to crush it even harder on him when he realized this was nothing more than a hallucination. 

Once, this was his father that came in an illusion. He remembers the longing touch of his father hand on his dark hair, the sad smile on his lips as he saw the state of his son, oh so bright when he was younger and oh so dark he became, oh so sad. _**”I’m sorry, Noctis.”**_ He heard him says, voice hoarse and so sad, broken even. His eyes fixed on his son, curled into a ball on the ground of the throne room. The furrows of his tears visible on Noctis’ face marked by phantom pain that never left. He could so easily remembers the soft touch of his father’s hand on his hair and his thumb lingering on his skin, right under his eye to remove a lingering tear. _**”I’m sorry I failed you, my son. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from this cursed fate in which you are trapped.”**_ Another sob and Noctis curled even more on the floor, his hands trying to hold on the asperities of the marble as another wave of pain rushed through him. He saw the broken face his father made and… It seemed so real, it seemed so true and so close to home, Noctis almost believed he was a child again. He could almost see his room when he was younger, the room he stayed in for so many hours after the accident. It felt so real to see his father now, it felt so… good and yet, so painful at this end. Cause when he tried to reach for his father, the King Regis, the illusion shattered and his hands felt on the marble floor, the sound echoing in the throne room, breaking even more the heart of the king of light. Or, at least, what stayed of the king’s heart. His father… Was everything, and seeing him, it broke him even more, even if it didn’t show during the normal and good days. He knew, deep down, that something shattered at the sight of his father, again. He knew he was hallucinating, the pain always made him do that, and he knew this wasn’t real, but he wanted to believe again. He wanted to trust into some little piece of sanity that was left in him. He wanted to believe that everything wasn’t completely broken and yet… At the end, he knew so many things were broken in him, so many things he couldn’t cured, that couldn’t heal. So many tiny things creating a big whole and leaving him alone and sad in this big throne room where nothing except pain was real. 

Sometimes, he even doubts his living state. Sometimes, it was easier to think he was already half-dead. 

After all, he tried. He tried to test his living state, to put his life to an end. He tried, so fucking hard, to finish it. It was the worst of all days he lived through. The worst where the cries and the pain didn’t stop for days and Insomnia was under a raging pouring rain and thunder. He had stayed over the marble floor for days, curled into a ball, a crying mess of some sort, his body hurting everywhere, even in places he didn’t know it existed. He didn’t even remember how he felt on the marble floor on the first day, and how he stayed that way for more than three days, or four, he didn’t remember. But, at some point, when the pain became a little numb, he raised himself on his knees. He was breathing hard, sweat dripping from his forehead as tears kept flowing out of this blood-shot eyes. He saw, by mistake, his reflection on the marble floor, and it was a new trigger. He saw his face, his eyes a dark pool of blue as dark as the floor, the growing of a bear and messy hair scotched on his face by his tears and the furrows of them on his pale cheeks, carved out by fatigue and pain. He saw the pale illusion he was of the man he once was, the pale figure of an Astral he was supposed to be. A copy. Nothing more than an empty shell with so little life in him. When he saw his reflection, he couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see the man he thought he was. He could only see the empty shell Bahamut made him to be. A puppet, a toy made by the hands of God himself, broken by a cursed destiny he failed to do perfectly since he was there. He could saw, in the reflection, the marks made by the burning of the Ring. Little paths of grey and red on his pale skin. And it broke. This vision broke something in him he didn’t know he had now : resolve to live. So, he raised himself, with so much difficulty as if his whole body ached – and it did, and began to walk in the direction of the throne. His steps so clumsy it reflected so madly his state of mind. One step, two steps, and it hurts so bad. His knees were aching for release, for forgiveness, aching for freedom, for the end. 

At the fourth step, his body scrambled and felt upon the stairs, another sob of desperation getting out of his mouth as pain shot right through him again and his hands was gripping so hard one of the steps as if it was the last thread of sanity he could hold onto. He left a few minutes passed by before closing his eyes, trying to subside the pain on his back, aching because of the of the steps hurting where the scar still was. He reopened his eyes and saw his hands, trembling, his palm wet with a little blood from gripping the steps too hard. The sobs became quieter as he raises himself again, with so much more difficulty as the first time, and he raised his eyes in the direction of the sword of his father, shining dimly in the dark place. The sanity was beginning to crackle as desperation rise even more in him, the roots deep into his mind now. There were so many things he wanted to say, to do and he couldn’t. There were so many things he’d like to change, to redo and he couldn’t, yet again. And here he was, living a pointless life, aimless, and with sole purpose to watch over people forgetting him over the ages. He was condemned to relive his death in his nightmares, to see every people he loved die in his dreams, and him.. Being helpless, useless. He couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t handle it. He had enough. This was enough. With the last strength he had, he summoned his ultima blade in his right hand, the roaring motor breaking the eternal sound of his now calm sobs. He let his eyes lingers on the blade, let his left fingers tracing the ridges of it, feeling the smooth textures between his skin. It felt like a sweet deliverance, a sweet end he chooses, for once. This… This was his choice, for once. And his chance to end all the suffering and lingering pain. It was _his_. Not a choice preordained by some kind of destiny. This was his fucking choice. 

He didn’t hesitate, not even a second, before he thrusts the sword into his chest, where the first scar was, in this exact position. He heard the calm outside, no rain, no thunder, nothing. There was nothing but quiet silence, quiet release, quiet freedom. Noctis let out a little huff of pain, a little groan of agony as blood was pooling out of his smiling lips. His stare became hazing, his eyes losing little by little their brightness as he saw freedom. He could almost feel it, on the tip of his fingertips, his right hand still holding the handle of the sword, pushing it even more into his chest, so much more that he felt on the stairs, his two hands now holding him barely above it. Blood was pouring out of his lips, falling into his neck and staining the marble floor with little drops of carmine. He raised again his head, his stare challenging the sword of his Father as tears kept flowing out of his now glassy eyes. Slowly, he felt everything moving into some kind of blur, slowly he saw himself falls on the stairs with the sword still impaling him. He saw blood rippling against the marble stairs as his stare became hazy, he felt nothing but comfort, solace. For once, he felt good, at peace. It felt right. He felt pain, still lingering in some parts of his body. But it still felt good. And he closed his eyes, embracing death as it slowly came to him, a smile lingering on his lips. A smile he didn’t had for years now. A free smile. Something so easy he forgot how to do it during all these years. He forgot how easy it was to smile when it felt good, how easy it was to feel really good and to feel free. But, on these stairs of his own throne room, with a sword plunged into his chest and blood dripping from his body, his eyes closed and content, he felt satisfied, good. He felt ready to embrace death again, to feel the cold coming with it. Ready to let himself be carried away from life, from this astral form he didn’t choose. He felt ready to be himself again, to see whatever thing was beyond. 

He wanted to see his friends again, his father, Cor, Luna, Umbra, Pryna, even Clarus, even Iris. He wanted to see them again, give them all the love he had and never really knew how to share. He wanted to thank them for everything they have done to him and he never knew how to thanks them. He wanted another chance in life, another chance to make things right, to find solace like everybody else. He wanted some kind of new life, something he could hold onto and breath into with all the life he had. He wanted a new chance in death. He wanted to find solace, to find respite. He wanted… Freedom, as simple as it seems. He wanted to be him again, not some pale copy of himself, an empty shell of what he used to be. He just wanted a second chance, a chance without a prophecy looming over his head. 

He reopened his eyes when he felt some delicate fur against his head, when he felt some whining of sadness and terror, and he wasn’t even surprised to see Carbuncle, looking distressed. He raised, slowly, one of his hand and let it fall on him, his fingers intertwining with the little strands of green fur. He saw the saddened stare of the little creature on him, and for a split second, a little surge of regret came from him, but not for long. Not when he thought of seeing his friends and his father again. The little creature knew it, how badly he wanted to go back, to really die and be himself again. He knew. He had access to his dreams and nightmares and it was in them that the desire was the strongest... If this day could be an exception. Carbuncle pushed his head again Noctis, the red crystal he bears on his forehead knocking against Noctis’ one. _Please, bring me back home, Carbuncle._ he thought as his fingers slowly loses their strength and his eyes slowly closed, lulled by Carbuncle sweet and soft purr into his ear. He knew the little creature will stay until he was asleep, until there was probably no life in him. But he reopened his eyes, once again, finding some volition somewhere in the deepest parts of his mind and spirit. And, in a last hallucination, he saw the face of his father, younger, smiling brightly at him. He saw Ignis, without his dark glasses, smiling softly at him, Gladiolus, grinning with his head on the side, and Prompto, smiling with this goofy grin, holding his precious camera between his hands. They all look younger. And it felt good. Guilt slowly fading away from his body, pain soothe away just by seeing all these faces, looking at him and not through him. He felt, suddenly, a hand in his hair, fingers soothing his messy hairs as Carbuncle was whining beside him. He knew this was Luna, he recognized the softness of her touch, the softness of her humming as well as he knew Umbra and Pryna were there, on each side of his legs, curled against him. He heard Luna’s voice as he finally closed his eyes. _**”Sleep, King of Light, we’re here.”**_ A finale tear felt from his eyes as Carbuncle nuzzle even more on him, and he let his eyes felt close and his hands falls down from Carbuncle’s back, lifeless. It was soothing. It felt good. It felt right. And he exhaled, one last time, he felt at peace. A real peace that could only lead him to the place he wanted so badly to go. Even the pain of the sword subsided and there was nothing left of it, there was not the metallic taste on his mouth anymore, there wasn’t any pain of some sort. No more tears, no more sleepless slumber, no more pain to hide away. Nothing. It was blank. It was freedom. It was finally over. 

And yet. He woke up, a long time after this, he didn't remember how much and didn't really cared. He thought, for a split second, that this was over, that he found solace, he found some kind of afterlife because pain wasn’t there at first and some gentle breeze was rustling his hairs and running on his skin, the kind that he so rarely found inside his throne room. He smiled, just for a split second, content, and suddenly, everything came and crushed against him. The cold of the marble, the eternal silence and of course… Of course, the noise from outside, the sound of the bustling city. He opened his eyes with the knowledge of what he’ll faced, and of course, there was deception. Of course, there was the burning bite of the violence, of the curse, or whatever thing was keeping him here. Of course, he couldn’t die. His head felt to the side, his dark hair obscuring his vision as he ran his fingers through his face, massaging his temples nervously. And suddenly, silence cracked, broken by a hysterical laugh mixed with some new kind of despair, anger and stress. He, again, saw his own death and revival. That was stupid, and he felt like he was becoming really insane, and nothing, that day, could stop the laugh that escaped his mouth nor the tears that escaped his eyes. Ramuh didn’t even try to launch his pouring rain and his raging thunder, Noctis needed this to go out as much as he knew he didn’t need privacy for this kind of revelation, hurting hard in the guts, and too close to home, too close for comfort, once again. **_”Fuck you, Bahamut.”_** he scoffed as he raised his head, eyes burning bright with some new kind of anger, and he saw, on the reflections on the marble of the wall, the eyes of Bahamut staring right at him. They stared at each other for a little time, Noctis not loosening his angry stare at the Mighty Astral, defying to do anything to him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything to hurt him more than he already did, actually, so Noctis didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. The only thing he could do to him was to kill him, and the king would be pretty glad he did. He would finally find rest, and the eternal calm he craved for after all these years, after all these years of careful duty. He deserved that. He didn’t deserve to be chained to this throne room, around people he wasn’t sure they could saw him, he couldn’t touch, couldn’t linger, couldn’t talk. He was alone, desperately alone, and while everyone around him had their sweet death, their sweet solace, he didn’t. And yes, he was jealous, he was angry, he was desperate to get it too because he did so much, he did so _fucking_ much. 

He was angry, and this desperate anger will probably never leave him. Even when he’ll meet the Galahdian hero, he’ll know that anger is still lingering, somehow, somewhere in his body, waiting to be unleashed like a beast. His angriness was like a beast Bahamut put inside a cage with everything at arm-length but without the possibility to grip it, to take it and embrace it. And if he was given a chance, he wouldn’t even hesitate, he would jump into, right through it, just to feel okay once again, to feel good, to feel calm and quiet. To feel the pain soothing away, to be numb of all of these nightmares taunting his mind, taunting the rest of his will to live. Nothing, in this throne room, was giving him room to breathe, to feel alive. Nothing was good. Everything was a fucking reminder of what he lost and what he’ll lose again and again, a fucking reminder of his life, of everything he did and all the good deeds that deserved him a place on immortality’s edge. An immortality he never wanted for his whole life, not even when he was in love, not even when he was having fun. Immortality always had a sound quite too depressing for him, too angsty for him to wanting it. So he never wanted it, and Bahamut, that Mighty Astral, gave it to him as a fucking reward. He really thought, at the beginning, that this was some kind of sick joke. But it wasn’t. And he couldn’t hold it together, not today. Not when he could stare into Bahamut’s eyes through the marble walls and let him feel all the frustration, all the despair, the angriness, the sadness he felt because of him. **_”Fuck you, Bahamut.”_** He repeated, louder, and he saw Bahamut’s stare faltered through the reflection and he couldn’t hide the little smug smile he was keeping on his lips as tears were still pooling out of his dark blue orbs. He closed his eyes, for a split second, and when he reopened it, Bahamut’s stare wasn’t there anymore. Maybe he had a fucking hallucination again, it was plausible, he thought. Pain was giving him the little proof he needed to know he wasn’t completely insane, maybe on the verge of it, but not completely. And that’s all he needed. And after this whole fiasco, he needed to tell Bahamut that, even if it was a damn illusion, a damn hallucination. He didn’t care it was a hallucination, he just cared he did. The rest… He didn’t care. 

He didn’t care anymore. He was tired. And he decided that once more, slumber was the easiest solution to ease and soothe the pain away. So, he closed his eyes and let himself fell into sleep, hoping for dreamless slumber.


End file.
